Hide Not Thy Poison
by Avelera
Summary: Thranduil captures Thorin alone and interrogates him in this alternate take on the Mirkwood dungeons. Believing that the company is dead, and subjected to drugs and other forms of torment, Thorin comes face to face with the darkest side of himself. (Dark fic, pairings include Thorin/Bilbo and Thorin/Thranduil. Please heed all warnings)
1. Chapter 1

**Hide Not Thy Poison**

**Author Note: **So finally, after months of delay, I am posting the first chapters of my story for the Hobbit Big Bang. A few shout outs are in order! Special thanks to KivrinEngle, for giving me the idea to use Shakespeare as a source of inspiration for the title. I doubt she will ever read this piece, but I owe her thanks nonetheless. Thanks are also due to Pherede for her fic "A Curious Mind" which was in part the inspiration for this story, with all that entails. A shout-out should also go to my beta Kailthia, as well as the good people of Tumblr who stopped by this fic and contributed their beta work. Final and greatest thanks go to Sevenums, who created beautiful art for this story as part of The Hobbit Big Bang. The art will be linked and included where it is applicable within the story, in about the last chapter for those of you keeping track.

This fic contains the following topics and potential **triggers**: dubious or non-consent, non-consensual drug, suicidal thoughts, psychological torment, and explicit sexual content. Please heed the warnings if you are sensitive to such things.

This story was written in large part before the release of The Hobbit: Desolation of Smaug and therefore follows the events of the books, in that Thorin is captured first and alone. In any case, it can be considered a darker take on what could happened in the depths of Thranduil's palace.

* * *

Hide not thy poison with such sugar'd words;  
Lay not thy hands on me; forbear, I say;  
Their touch affrights me as a serpent's sting.  
Thou baleful messenger, out of my sight!  
Upon thy eye-balls murderous tyranny  
Sits in grim majesty, to fright the world.  
Look not upon me, for thine eyes are wounding:  
Yet do not go away: come, basilisk,  
And kill the innocent gazer with thy sight;  
For in the shade of death I shall find joy;

Henry VI, by William Shakespeare

* * *

The cell is lit by torches outside of the barred door, and is clean swept and dry. There is a pallet by the wall where his chains are anchored, and food brought in at regular hours. Slowly, Thorin begins to recover his strength, all the while studying the door, the links of the chains, and the bolts that fastened them to the wall.

In all his studies, he realizes only one thing: he lacks the tools for his own escape. He recognizes good steel when he sees it, knows the extent of his own strength, knows that it would take a cave troll to rip his chains from the wall, and the door from its hinges. He is alone, in some dungeon in the depths of Thranduil's palace, at the end of a long and winding corridor. Even if the Company should somehow infiltrate the palace to rescue him, they would surely be seen before they made it this far.

When the elves first brought him here it was with a sackcloth thrown over his head, down for what felt like miles. The ground had twisted and turned beneath his feet, such that by the time they reached his cell he could not even begin to retrace his steps from memory. The elves that brought him there were impossibly strong, but not rough, and somehow that made it worse. He was dragged as if by iron bonds, and when he tried to drag his captors to the ground, and make some attempt at grappling his way free, they had simply lifted him, as if he weighed no more than a child.

A day passes before Thranduil comes to see him, soft shoes padding silent along the carven hallway. He is flanked by two elves with dark hair and there is something in his hand, a tanned leather pouch drawn tight with a drawstring. Thorin has a moment to study it, unable to divine its purpose as they take out the keys to enter his cell. Fed and rested, he is able to study Thranduil calmly. Hunger and exhaustion had driven him to the edge, and now a more level head would be needed. There is no company here, and he feels unbalanced at their loss, unaware of how steadying their influence is until it is gone. He can manage this, though. He can play whatever games Thranduil requires if means freedom from this place.

Thranduil stops in front of him, regards him, bending low in an exaggerated movement that seems designed to remind Thorin of his height. Thorin watches, his expression stony. He opens his mouth, prepares to give Thranduil a polite but scathing welcome.

Thranduil's hand appears before him, held flat. On it there is a pile of yellow dust that he holds in an open palm before his lips. Thorin's brow furrows, and he has only a moment to see it before Thranduil puffs, once, and the dust scatters.

Thorin inhales with a short, startled gasp. Yellow powder hangs in the air in front of him and he starts, sneezes and jerks away. Whatever the substance is, it hangs like powder in the air, and has the herbal scent of pollen. It tastes, oddly, of tealeaves, and coats the inside of his throat and he coughs as it sticks there like flour. He swallows before he can think better of it, and his saliva turns the powder to a thin coat of mud painting the inside of his throat. Tears spring to his eyes as he hacks, works his throat and spits as much of the stuff from his mouth as he can. Thranduil does not stop him, does not even blink as Thorin snorts and spits again, a yellow gob of pollen and saliva hitting the floor. He knows he has not got it all, not by half. Still it coats the inside of his nose, tongue, and lips.

Thorin's hands are bound at the wrist, but he manages to turn his head and wipe his face against the shoulder of his tunic, all the while glaring at Thranduil with every ounce of his fury. He works up more saliva and spits out what is left of the stuff, but whatever the pollen was, it has begun to work its devilry. It is moving down his throat, burning its way there like a drought of whiskey. It pools in his stomach like alcohol too, suffusing his limbs with a heat that is burning away some of the pain and tension from the rough treatment and the many days of travel and starvation in the woods. He may still have some effort and concentration, he may be able to vomit the stuff up before it finished its work.

"Don't," says Thranduil. Thorin relaxes instantly, and falls against the bonds. Calm courses through his neck and shoulders like the spread of a warm balm, but it is wrong, terribly wrong.

"What have you done to me?" Thorin whispers. He tries to constrict his muscles, to gag the last of the pollen away but his body refuses to obey him. No, more than his body. His mind as well, for the thought slips through it like a fish, eluding his grasp. He cannot seize upon it but perhaps he no longer needs to force himself to be sick, because the golden glow in his stomach is turning to the leaden weight of dread. "What have you _done_?"

"Calm yourself, son of Thráin," Thranduil says idly, and straightens. Thorin feels his panic slipping away even as he is aware that it should have doubled. Thranduil dusts the last of the yellow powder off his fingertips, where he had been concealing it, and clasps his hands behind him. "It is merely the distilled pollen of a certain plant, it will not harm you. But I have grown tired of your evasions, and this should speed your answers."

Thranduil's face seems to wavers as he speaks, and a faint trail, an afterimage, follows the movement of his hands and body. Thorin blinks, the world shifting behind his eyelids, as the split-second moment seems to stretch. He exhales and his breath echoes. "What is it doing to me?" he says, his voice sounds thick in his ears. The tension is leaving his jaw as his face begins to feel numb.

"Nothing excessive. It is a weak potion. I have observed its effect in my people as no stronger than that of a bottle of wine, so long as you don't resist its effects. I have no wish to harm you, but I require your cooperation, and this should place you in the proper frame of mind." Thranduil stopped, his figure wavering like a mirage, white against the black stone of the cell. "I have news of your companions."

Thorin shoots forward, or tries to, but falls hard against the bonds and the world spins as if he's been struck in the face with a club. The burn of the pollen is increasing, filling his entire body as if with fire. The first prickle of sweat chills his forehead. The space between each breath stretched in an ever-wider gulf in his ears, but his mind knows that the pace of his breathing has not actually changed.

"Tell me," Thranduil says, and his voice booms like thunder rolling over the plains. "Why did you and your folk three times try to attack my people at their merrymaking?"

Thorin's vision swims, and the light of the torches glinting off Thranduil's hair and robes and he glows like a candle flame. The light beckons Thorin, and the figure consumes his world. It is the source of the warmth inside him, the light before him, and all clarity comes from it. He opens his mouth.

"_Speak_," the flame hisses, the tongues of heat snapping higher, racing across the ground so they dance just inches before Thorin.

"We…" Thorin begins. He sees in the heart of the fire the road that led the company from Beorn's, his companions stretching out before him like a train of ants, becoming gradually less distinct as they traveled deeper into the darkness beneath the canopy. His brows draw together in confusion. He feels hunger like a phantom pain, thrumming through him with each pulse of the drug. Faces waver in his memory. His kin…his kin are among them, as are… others. But they would not, had not come to attack. He knew it, he had said so for suddenly the memory is rushing forward as if falling from a great height and he is in the court of his enemy, bound with thongs and amongst the rushing chaos and the burning in his veins there's an island, like a rock jutting forth from a raging river. He has heard this question before, he has answered…correctly. No, he had not told the whole truth because…because there was some reason not to. But the remembered answer gives him somewhere to stand and he repeats it as the recollection returns to him. "We did not attack them, we came to beg, because…"

"Oh, not again," the flame crackles. "If he says starving one more time… The truth this time! What were you doing in the forest?"

Thorin, or rather the burning creature trapped inside flesh and bindings, surrounded by crashing sounds and lights, stops. It is as if he has encountered a wall. He has _given_ the truth, and his confusion grinds the headlong rush to a halt.

A shiver runs through Thorin as he comes back to himself with a feeling like the twang of a broken harp string. It stings like one too, and he looks down to see his fingernails are digging into his palms. His hands have gone white and bloodless, nausea roils in his stomach. Thranduil stands before him, no longer a creature of living flame, but only a hated figure in silver. His eyes bore black into Thorin's, impatience in the sour twist of his lips.

_I have already given my answer_, Thorin begins to say, and those will be his last under his own power. For behind them he can feel words building like water behind a dam, pressing against one another. It would be like scratching an itch to answer, to give his entire life's story and the deepest hopes and fears of his heart that not even his kin knew to this traitor before him. Simple, without a second thought the words would tumble out and not stop until he was wrung out and hoarse. The realization sends a bolt of terror through him, but it doesn't stop the need. He can't even open his mouth to suck down a breath because that itch is growing to a pain, and relief would be so easy.

So he clenches his jaw until he thinks his teeth will crack, and though the words may whisper in his mouth he traps them, even as another wave of the drug washes through him and he wonders if he'll weep from the need to speak.

Thranduil frowns. "_Ai_, the stubbornness of dwarves. And would you speak if I reminded you that the fate of your companions still lies within my control? Leaderless they wander, far off the path. Perhaps they seek my palace, for even without you they still may intend to do my people harm."

It is certainly not Thanduil's intent, but Thorin melts in relief at his words. Wandering off the path had its perils, but they are still alive. They had not been slain by the spiders, or by the treacherous elves. Alive means that there is hope, if he can but escape his bonds and Thranduil's dungeon. He never thought he'd miss so much the faces of his kin, long so greatly for…

Thorin doubles over, the breath rushing out of him as if he had been sucker-punched. A frisson runs through every muscle and artery, and he was straining at the bonds. He needs to get out of here, but the need was like a living thing inside him, a beast without reason or self-preservation, pressing at his bonds regardless of how they cut into his flesh.

Thranduil draws back in alarm, and says something to the guards beside him, something Thorin hears distantly but cannot understand. He can see the company before him as if they are there in the flesh, and he somehow transported into the darkness of the wood by will alone. But pain is lancing through him from his bonds, his body rebelling with all its force to make the wish come true, even in the face of pain and reality.

Want. Want is the key to it, he is certain even as the Elvenking draws close again, studying him.

"If you wish them to live, you will answer the question," Thranduil says and Thorin's theory is confirmed as shudder races through him, his mind touching briefly on Thranduil's words. Instead he bites his lip, the pain drawing him from the edge, but only for a moment.

That moment is enough. Thorin knows what he wants now, and there is blood on his teeth as he smiles at Thranduil and contemplates breaking free of his bonds, of wrapping hands rough from sword and hammer around that slender throat and crushing the life from him. But the chains hold him and will not let him free. He does not need to speak to desire Thranduil's death, and Thranduil must see that death in his eyes for he straightens. Fire pulses through Thorin's veins, and with it rage and triumph to have discovered the mechanism of Thranduil's drug, twisting the desires of the victim so they align to their interrogator, or whatever suggestion is put to their helpless minds.

But he is no longer helpless. He is armed now, he can hold his secrets to his very grave if necessary. Thorin's lips taste of salt and iron, and wishes only that it were not his own. It bolsters him like the steel that reinforces a broken blade, and he is himself again, able to outlast any number of hours and questions that this traitorous king may throw at him. There is displeasure in the downturned angle of Thranduil's lips and without warning he turns back to the door, not sparing Thorin another glance.

"We will resume tomorrow, son of Thráin. Consider this another day lost, a day your companions may not have," Thranduil says, gesturing to the guards. They close the door behind them, locking it. They leave Thorin in his chains, the drug still pulsing in his veins, triumph and blood turning to ashes in his mouth.


	2. Chapter 2

**Trigger Warnings**: This chapter contains mentions of suicidal thoughts and outright descriptions of a non-con scene. Please heed all warnings if you are effected by such things. This chapter is the first that matches the rating.

* * *

The next day, Thranduil administers the drug again to Thorin.

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

Every day, in the moments of lucidity between the nightmares, Thorin scratches a tally mark into the wall with the edge of his manacle. He counts how many days a dwarf may go without food or water, how many had already passed when he was taken from the company.

Every day he asks Thranduil, "Will you help them?"

The first day it is a challenge, and he throws it in the Elvenking's face. Thranduil's eyes flash with anger, pitiless as stars, when he says coldly, "No."

The second day it is a demand. The Elvenking's answer does not change.

On the third day it is an entreaty, and it does not matter. He inhales the powder as it is forced down his lungs, and it is in his teeth, in his throat and mouth. He is spiraling again. Lost.

Three days pass this way. He holds onto his silence, teeth grinding, jaw tightened to the point of cracking, and waits it out. Tries not to think, ignores the questions as they are thrown at him.

Feels himself slipping.

* * *

Four days. They had starved for three when he was stolen. A week without food, without water too. Can a dwarf survive so long?

Can a hobbit?

The manacles are like brands around his wrists and he can barely swallow the food that is given to him. It is as dust in his mouth and he only consumes it to maintain strength, so that he might take his chance, wrestle his way past the impossibly strong elven guards. It is hopeless, and he knows it. Every bite brings up bile, guilt and shame. These moments of solitude are the better part of his day, and he waits in dread for the sound of soft footfalls coming up the winding corridor. The sound is like a saw across his nerves, but he hides it. He is a dwarf, his kind were made from stone, and he must become stone again if he is to survive this.

He is no longer sure he wishes to.

* * *

He flinches, once, on the fourth day at the sound of their approach. Stands as much as the manacles will allow. He wants to be on his feet when he faces the Elvenking. Thorin clasps his hands before him and squares his shoulders, challenging Thranduil with his gaze as he comes into view.

The iron gate creaks open, the dark haired guards enter before their king, flanking him. Thranduil takes his customary place across from Thorin, looks down at him.

"Will you help them?" Thorin says.

"No," Thranduil replies, and the corner of his mouth twitches, amused, as if this is no more than the latest step in their dance. Thorin hates him for it, hates that he has become so much better at reading Thranduil's moods.

He braces himself. Closes his eyes and taking a deep breath, hoping to hold off the onslaught for a few precious seconds, to stay the fires of the drug as they work through his system and tear down his defenses, leaving him with silence as his only shield.

"There is no need for that today," Thranduil says. "I thought instead that we might talk."

Thorin cracks open an eye, sees that Thranduil is sitting now, the guards having brought chairs with them this time. He frowns, puzzled, before locking up his expression again. One of the guards takes a second chair and sets it beside Thorin, across from Thranduil and within easy reach of his chains. Does not unlock them, but beckons for Thorin to sit as well.

"I will stand," he growls, addressing Thranduil.

Thranduil inclines his head in acknowledgement and Thorin's hackles are up. Why this sudden change? He would rather take the drug again, this uncertainty is worse than the fire. He will need to do more than react, he will have to think, and attempt to outmaneuver a canny opponent. It would be a challenge even if Thorin was in a place of strength, his thoughts not consumed with the seconds and minutes of the day. A week. They had been starving a week.

They might already be dead.

Despair rises in him, and he forces it aside, meets Thranduil's gaze. Seated, Thranduil and he are on the same level, another reason not to accept the offered chair. Thorin crosses his arms across his chest, and settles back to wait.

"It has occurred to me how unseemly it is for two kings to converse with one another as we do," Thranduil says. His words are slow, languorous as one who has all the time in the world and knows it. Thorin can already feel himself growing impatient. "After all, such methods of force as I have employed are of better use on foul things. Orcs and other servants of evil, who cannot be trusted to give testimony without weaving it through with lies. We two should be above such things. Employ the art of diplomacy, and leave such brutish measures behind."

"It is not I who have employed these measures," Thorin says, eyes narrowing.

"But it is within your power to end them at any point, if you will but tell me the truth," Thranduil says. Thorin's lips firm to a line. If this is to be the nature of the conversation, he sees no reason to treat it any differently than the drugging sessions. Thranduil sees this and settles back, places his hands on the arms of the chair and reclines as if it were indeed a throne. Suddenly, Thorin no longer feels so steady. The power of the room has shifted and he is standing as a supplicant before Thranduil, but it is too late to take the seat.

He plants himself instead, shifting on his feet and striving for height he does not have, tilting up his chin. Thranduil arches an eyebrow, and appears to reconsider his argument. It is not a victory. Thorin knows his silence has given more information than he intended. One more reason to hate Elves: the thousands of years they have at their disposal to learn the nuances of mortal expressions, to toy with them upon a field so unbalanced as to be laughable. The gift of the Valar, who had set them at unquestionable heights above all other races, even above those who had been firstborn in truth.

"You might have ruled a great kingdom by now, had fate been kinder," Thranduil says. "You may still make Ered Luin more than it is, a filthy little miner's town. Should that day ever come, I would wish to grant you a gift."

"I have no interest in your gifts," Thorin growls.

"A trade, then," Thranduil says. "I have been callous, offering you nothing in return for your information. I thought that I only bargained with thieves, and assassins. If I do in truth negotiate with a king, or a future one, it is only just that an exchange is made. I propose that I will teach you the art of kingship and, if you find the lessons useful, you shall give me what I ask for in return."

"And if I do not?" Thorin says. _Teach_ him the art of kingship? His teeth grind and rage kindles in his belly. _Teach him? _As if he were a strippling youth, as if he knew nothing of what it meant to lead his people in times of hardship? If he thought he could get away with it, Thorin would reach out then and there and strangle the life from Thranduil.

Then his eyes drift, downward, to Thranduil's clasped hands. To the concealed fingertips that may even now hide the yellow powder. Fear quenches his anger, turns it to ash inside him. He feels as if he is turning to ash, to gray blankness that is the only way to hold on to his silence. The fire inside gutters.

"A king who will not accept a hand offered in friendship is worse than an orc, worse than a beast," Thranduil says. "And you will be kept here as one."

Thranduil stands, the hem of his robes pooling on the floor like quicksilver. "We will begin tomorrow, and you will be offered each in turn. To be treated as a king, or to be treated as a beast. We may continue as long as it takes for you to choose correctly. I have no doubt it will demand more than a single day, such is always the way with dwarves."

Thranduil turns to leave, the two elves at his side snatching up the chairs and he stops, as ever he does when he prepares his parting shot. Thorin closes his eyes, wishes he could close his ears too, and waits.

"Some of your companions may yet live," Thranduil says. "But I wonder… for how much longer?"

Thorin's knuckles crack as he draws them into fists, feels his muscles tense to throw himself against the chains, to reach for Thranduil and tear him apart with his bare hands.

The fire dies. It would be a futile action, serving nothing.

He bows his head as their footsteps recede.

* * *

It begins again the next day, as promised. The guards open the door, Thranduil a silver flame to their dark-green shadows. He stands before Thorin, fingers pinched together and upraised, prepared to blow the fine powder into his face.

"Tell me which it will be, son of Thráin. Are you a king, or a beast?" Thranduil says.

"Better a beast than a king by _your_ measure," Thorin retorts. He is prepared this time, inhaling deep so that he need not breathe for minutes after it is dispersed into the air.

The guards are prepared for this too. With a nod from Thranduil they surround Thorin, prying open his mouth, pinching his nose until he does so. He holds out, but there is only so much even a dwarf can manage and once again he is coughing and sputtering as the powder chokes him. Fine as flour, it coats his tongue and throat and he hacks to clear it, knowing it is already too late. Again the warmth steals over him and a haze descends over his mind, but he is ready. Thranduil's form wavers in the air before him, crouching mockingly low to address him.

All throughout the night has had considered different strategies for evading the questions, and so now Thorin closes his ears, humming low at the back of his throat to block out Thranduil's words. He builds walls in his mind, great masonry blocks falling into place, a city to dwell within locked within a mountain, dug far into the bedrock. He fills his ears with the clanging of picks and hammers. He lulls himself with visions of the Erebor, enclosing and defending himself within his home.

It does not take Thranduil long to catch on to his plan, but the moments stretch to what feel like hours in the thrumming echoes of the drug through his veins and heartbeat, and his technique fails as long fingers close around his chin and jerk his head upward.

"You wish to tell me why you were traveling through my forest," Thranduil says.

Thorin is drawn up short, as the desire to please meets the walls of resistance. In his state they are literal walls, the walls of Erebor built into the mountain, climbing to the sky in a solid mass that is one with the earth. The wall in his mind _is_ Erebor, it is family, his nephews, and his sister Dís watching them depart from the gates of Ered Luin. It is Frerin lying in a pool of blood at Azanulbizar, and all his companions, and their fathers before them stretching back to Durin. It is Bilbo, who sacrificed everything for no other reason than to see Thorin and his people return home. He will not betray that trust any more than Erebor could fall.

"But Erebor did fall," a sibilant whisper slithers around his ears, enters him and dances along his brain. Had he spoken aloud? "It was no match for the dragon." And he can see the drug burning red in his veins, seeking his heart all the secrets kept their, and it is the burning red of Smaug tearing down the gates with his claws, the heat is dragon fire and the truth is waiting on his lips, just as Thorin had stood at the battlements, helplessly watching his city fall.

Thorin chokes on a gasp, clenching his eyes shut against the vision, as his home and refuge is torn apart before his eyes by the inexorable voice that demands more of him. He is alone, naked in the dark, and somewhere in the dark beyond wander his kin, and Bilbo. Dying, or perhaps already dead.

"Erebor is gone, forevermore beyond your reach. Unless that is what you seek now? Is that why you pass through my forest, lost son of a lost kingdom?"

Panic rises swift and sharp in Thorin's heart to have already given away so much and he tries frantically divert. If Thranduil knows, he will stop them at any cost. If he believes Smaug is dead, as Thorin does, he will be the first to Erebor like a vulture alighting on a corpse. Want, desire, those were the impulses fanned by the drug, the impulses Thranduil relied upon for his answers. As ever, when there was fear in his heart, Thorin turned to rage to bolster him.

What does _he_ want? He wants Thranduil to be the one on his knees before him. He snarls against the drug, against the reality of Thranduil standing before him imperious and demanding, tugging at the heart of Thorin's being for his answer. It will not end here. He will not spend the rest of his days as the plaything of an oathbreaker while his home is drug is tearing at his brain, and it feels as if all wards against the savagery of his own heart have been worn away layer by layer with each dose. He is on the knife's edge now, where every second is like a muffled scream, and each blink of his eyes threatens to drag him down. But he cannot trust himself, or the drug that flows through his blood and lungs. If he gives in will he go mad, or will he only be hypnotized, muttering plans to…he cannot even think the words, he must not.

But when he is successful it will be Thranduil kneeling before him. A king, he says? Well, let Thranduil be the first to admit that a king may fall, and oh how much farther they fall when they have so much more to lose. Let him be stripped of his crown and robes, let _him_ be bound with thongs and chained in a cell. His lessons on kingship will have more meaning when they are spoken by one who no longer has it, let him keep his smug certainty of his right to rule when he is naked and bound.

Heat races along Thorin's skin, the fires of hatred which feel not so unlike the fires of lust. He can see the Elvenking bowed before him, his pale lips parted and begging for, what? Freedom, for Thorin to help him regain _his _kingdom. Perhaps his son is lost somewhere in the woods, starving, and he begs Thorin's aid. Yet all feel wrong in Thorin's mind, they do not give the bone-deep satisfaction he requires, and he bites his lip to keep himself from speaking even as he seizes his vision of Thranduil by the back of the head and closes his mouth around those lips, biting and violating him. He wants to feel anger, he wants this elf to feel as helpless as he does, but even that isn't right. The drug pulses in his veins and he _wants_ and he _sees _Thranduil gasp against him, his pale body bending like a bow against Thorin's clothed one.

Somewhere, distantly, a voice not nearly as breathy and desperate as the Thranduil in his vision is complaining about something. But Thorin pays him no mind, he knows that he remains silent, for there is only the sound of his own breath through his nose, his lips are still sealed shut. But behind his eyes a white figure is clad only in bonds and lays stretched out on a stone floor beneath the mountain. Thranduil gives an unwilling twitch, his skin is like satin beneath Thorin's hand.

"Son of Thráin…" a voice is saying in the waking world but Thorin is far away. He sees the body of Thranduil stretched before him, his hands bound behind him. He imagines his own hand tracing that pale flesh, free of manacles and bedecked with rings. He sees Thranduil as his prisoner before him, these desperate days in Mirkwood a distant memory. Erebor reclaimed, and vengeance had. His fingers skirt Thranduil's inner thigh, drawing out his arousal and the Elvenking, a king no longer, keens a high-pitch and desperate sound.

Thorin's heart goes cold within him, even as his blood is hot. He feels no pity for this wanton creature before him, who bends to his touch. He wants only to take from Thranduil what the elf had tried to take from him: his dignity and pride. He wants to wring hidden words and needy sounds from him. Thorin licked his lips against a mouth gone suddenly dry at the thought.

The drug captures his imaginings, plasters them in vivid colors behind his eyelids. He can feel his fingers enclosing Thranduil's length, bringing him to hardness with rough strokes while elf writhes and keens beneath his touch. He can hear the elf wanting it, yet hating himself for giving in to so low a creature, a mere dwarf. Thranduil scrabbles for his dignity and cannot find it. He is a wrecked and wanting thing, desiring only Thorin's touch. Yet he is aware, ever and throughout, of how far he has fallen. It is there in those icy blue eyes: self-loathing that burns with the same heat as his desire. He wants only to be plundered now, the only purpose of his life. Thorin indulges him, giving him the touch that has been withehld. Thranduil's body would be ready for it, this would not have been the first time that the elf panted beneath his touch. His hand slips lower, slicked with oil and enters Thranduil. The elf bucks, grinding into the ground, drawing Thorin's fingers into him, begging for more in slurred tones that have lost their arrogant precision long ago.

Thorin fingers him mercilessly, and it does not take long because at this point Thranduil is always ready for him, preparing himself in anticipation, wanting him, falling before him. He is begging now for Thorin's cock, and Thorin's lust rides the waves of the drug, burning hot enough to consume him. He is lost in visions of stretching Thranduil, of flipping him onto his stomach, stronger now than the waifish elf. His own broad hands would be dark against the pale white flesh of the elf's hip. There would be little warning as he drove himself in, but Thranduil would moan with relief, and with shame, rocking himself back onto Thorin's cock like the wanton and fallen creature he is. Thranduil wants this, it has all he has ever wanted as Thorin stabs his pleasure spot again and again, hardly taking a note even of his own pleasure, if it can be called that. Rather it is a dark satisfaction that curls in his gut, far more effective than anything so gentle as lust. It is victory. It is conquest, and it sets his body afire with a heat that consumes him, as the elf lays plundered beneath him, and he is close, he is-

There is a ringing slap and pain blossoms across Thorin's face. He jerks free of the whirlwind and Thranduil is facing him, eyes puzzled. He is clothed and looming, and wears his disdain like a cloak. The wanton vision melts and with it nausea rises in Thorin's mouth, banishing all heat. Any effects it had on his body die in a blink and he recoils from Thranduil with revulsion.

"And where does your mind wander, dwarf? What paths does it walk while you ignore my questions?" Thranduil says. "Sleep and dreams will do nothing to aid your companions, nor will it stay my purpose."

Sleep? How could that have been sleep? He is back in his cell, hands chained before him as he kneels, and perhaps that is the only reason they had not seen the effects of the drug upon him. He burns with a different fire now, with shame, and disgust that twists within him like a living thing.

Beneath it there is a new question, of whence the vision had come from, what flaw in his own metal had given rise to that desire? To destroy Thranduil, aye, that he would glory in if given the chance, were it not a short-sighted and suicidal prospect. But destroying him in other ways? That had never occurred. Not until now, when he knelt before the Elvenking and saw what tortures the elf would gleefully subject him to. Had this always been within him, or was this too the fault of Thranduil?

He has no answer, but glares up at the elf, silent as ever, fearing that speaking even a single word would release the torrent.

"Do you think on your companions?" Thranduil continues, accustomed now to Thorin's silence and seeming not to care at all whether Thorin participates in the game. There is always something to draw him out again, that Thorin cannot resist even if he attempts to stop his ears. He dare not let his thoughts wander again, but feels his heart grow cold at the thought of the tortures he would visit upon Thranduil in return. He is cold to the depths of his soul, as if the fire within is replaced by ice and he is transforming into something other. Something he does not recognize, but that is crafted of hatred and helplessness. "Do you wonder after them? When last you saw them they lay within the webs of the spiders. Perhaps they are there still. What would you do now, if confronted by them? What would you tell them, son of Thráin?"

He can see them. As real as if they stood before him, Thorin can see the company. Bodies dripping webs, faces pale in death, they watch him with accusation in their eyes. How else could they view him except with hatred, who is fed, if imprisoned. Who dreams of lying with the enemy responsible for their suffering. How could they not hate him, he who with every second under Thranduil's power threatens to confess the purpose of their mission and give away the keys to Erebor if only it means escaping this place? But he cannot give in, he must not. For them.

Thranduil withdraws, looks down upon him. "We will cease with the drug for a day. Worthy or not, a lesson in the manners of a king will perhaps do you good, instead of wandering the paths of delirium as you seem to so enjoy. Rest and recover your sobriety. Tomorrow I expect to meet with Thorin, lord of Ered Luin, and not a mute beast," Thranduil says. He leaves, and perhaps his mind is preoccupied with other matters for he takes no parting shot.

Thorin would not have heard it in any case. Slowly, the world returns to him, but he needs no drug to see his kin, and his failure, laid out before him true as life itself.

* * *

**Author Note: **Thank you for reading! I know it's a rather dark tale, but do consider leaving a comment if you're enjoying it!


	3. Chapter 3

Ten days since he was taken. Thorin is listless as he considers this, Thranduil's voice a buzz at the edge of his hearing. It is the third day of these lessons, and Thorin has found that the hours pass more easily if he feigns attentiveness.

He is aware of this change in himself, just as he is aware that it means he is on the path to breaking. He is silent where he was once defiant, playing along with Thranduil's game if it means he will not be subjected to the punishment of the drug, or see again the depraved visions that haunted him under its influence. The thought makes Thorin sick, makes him furious.

He does nothing.

"This sullenness does not suit you, Thorin of Ered Luin," Thranduil remarks, and Thorin starts, pulls himself free of his drifting. It seems he must grow better at listening with half an ear, and that is a lesson on kingship that benefit him yet. The idea that he might gain anything of Thranduil, except his freedom, is like a dart beneath his skin. More irritating than painful, but slowly draining his life's energy nonetheless. "Have you heard ought of what I said? Or would you prefer to give me your thoughts on other, more pertinent matters?"

Thorin shivers, and raises his eyes to meet Thranduil's icy visage. Sullen. He has not been called thus since he was a child, scolded by his mother. Thranduil had been alive then. He no doubt would have seen Thorin grow from infancy in his periodic visits between the kingdoms of the Greenwood and Erebor.

Thranduil's first official sight of Thorin would have been before Thorin's own memory began, when he was presented at birth as the second in line for the throne. Thranduil would have been unchanged, thousands of years old, one for whom these past two hundred were only a blink. To Thranduil, even the most respected and venerable dwarf would appear no more than a child, as fleeting as Men. All the great works of dwarven hands, the many years spent learning the heights of skill in their craft, would be barely the extent of an elven apprenticeship. In what just world were such creatures allowed to walk amongst mortals? What creator would be so merciless as to place these beings side by side with those limited by death? Elves had come from their Undying Land across the sea, and Thorin wishes they would return there to trouble these shores no more. The thought of Thranduil taking himself and his ilk thence is a pleasant one, if utterly futile, but it gives Thorin a small enough flicker of pleasure to face the Elvenking, to add a faint smirk to his words. It feels like regaining himself, if only a small measure.

"Of course. In our own tongue we say, I hope you die a death of flames, on this matter" Thorin says, slipping briefly and spitefully into Khuzdûl. "It is well known amongst the dwarves that, as you say, a king must attempt to be fair and even handed with punishment and reward, with friends as well as enemies."

Thranduil regards him suspiciously, but he does not speak the dwarven language. None do, save the dwarves and the wizards. Gandalf, whom they call Tharkûn, and Saruman who was once a servant of Mahal. It is a petty jab on his part, yet he clings to any defiance he can manage to stop the humiliating, downward slide. It took fully a day after the last dose for the drug to leave his system, and it made the world hazy and unreal. Or perhaps it is only the dungeon itself, days of captivity with little movement playing havoc with his senses. It makes him feel on-edge, unbalanced, and for a dwarf there is little worse than losing the solid ground beneath them.

"Tell me, when you brought your nephews with you on this journey, taking them from their mother's home and casting them both into the wild world, did you apprise them of the risks?" Thranduil says. He tilts his head, glancing at Thorin out of the corner of his eye as he faces the door of the cell. "How will you explain to your sister, to your father's youngest and only daughter, that you have allowed her sons to die on your quest for vengeance? Or did she volunteer them, sacrificing her lambs to slaughter if it meant that the line of Durin may complete its final fall into ignominy? What will she do when she learns of their fate?"

"And what is their fate, son of Oropher?" Thorin says. His head is bowed and his voice a low growl, helpless rage flickers in his heart, rousing him from his stupor.

Thranduil regards Thorin, his expression impassive. "I should think no great wisdom is needed to guess the answer to your question. If they still wander the path, without food or water, then their fate is certain. My forest holds many dangers for the unwary and weak. Without aid, they would certainly perish."

"Then let me go to them!" Thorin says, slamming against his chains, stopped short and glaring up at Thranduil. "Let me lead them thence and you will never hear from us again. Only let us pass!" That elven face remains impassive and Thorin feels his own expression slip as he confronts the true enormity of Thranduil's indifference. He will let them die, and think no more on their deaths than he would of one of the great spiders. Thorin's blood goes cold in his veins and he sees them, their pales faces veiled by webs and contorted in death. His nephews. Bilbo. His family and friends. Thorin's voice cracks, the first break of what he now knows will be many, rolling out before him without end. But there was no other way, and no pride left to stop his headlong fall. "_Please_. I—I beg you. Please help them."

And Thranduil only tilts his head, his expression as cold and remote as the stars his people worship, and says, "A king does not beg."

Thorin stares, his lips parted for further pleading. But he has no more pride, only shock. "And yet elves consider themselves fair? How- how can you hold to such delusions when you allow the helpless to die?"

"I see nothing helpless about twelve heavily armed dwarves of Durin's Folk," says Thranduil, but his gaze is intent now, those cold eyes fixed and studying Thorin's expression for even the slightest betrayal.

The world stops. Thorin's breath freezes in his throat and he can barely gasp out, "Twelve?" Thranduil blinks, saying nothing. "But the thirteenth-?" He cannot even bring himself to say the Halfling's name. Not him, surely not. But dwarves are hardy, this he knows, and time is running out. Has run out. Has failed.

"There was no thirteenth member by the counting of my scouts," says Thranduil, and something that may be puzzlement and may be sympathy flickers across his face and is gone. "If such a one ever existed, he was lost to the forest before we knew of him."

Cold stone strikes Thorin's knees and he doesn't know when his strength fled him but he is kneeling. Fallen. "Lost?"

"There is no manner in which a member of your party could slip our notice. We have counted twelve. If thirteen there ever were, then he is no longer among the living," Thranduil says. He appears troubled, but Thorin barely notes it. The room is tilting, and his breath is coming in shallow gasps.

It has begun. Of course it would be Bilbo first, barefoot and weak, huffing upon the mat as he welcomed Thorin into his home, his sword flashing in the fire's light as he defended Thorin from Azog. Gone. His bones rotting far from the green hills he'd missed so dearly. Thorin had sworn no oath to protect him, never guaranteeing Bilbo's safety nor taking any responsibility for his fate. Yet all those words seemed haughty and weak now towards one who had defended him, and sworn to aid Thorin in reclaiming his home, though it gained Bilbo nothing and now had cost him all.

"There may yet be a few of them who still live," Thranduil says, his voice a background murmur to the roar of Thorin's thoughts. "Their lives are yours to save, if you will but speak freely. As king—"

"Shut up."

Thorin glares at the pale elf before him with death in his eyes. It is not a death promised in retribution, it is not the fire that sent him jerking to the end of his chain, reaching for Thranduil's throat.

No, it is a death that has taken up residence within him. It is the fragile veil of hope ripped away, so that Thranduil may see in Thorin's eyes that there is nothing more within him but the empty pit from which no light may escape. What fire that once resided there is now gone, leaving no purpose in him but to hide what secrets remained to him.

Thranduil regards Thorin, his face expressionless. From within the pit of his own heart, Thorin wonders distantly if he will be forced to suffer the drug again, and finds he does not care. Silence has fallen within him and it is the silence of the grave. Let Thranduil have his games. There was naught within Thorin left to rise to the bait, and no doubt the Elvenking would only grow crueler, now that he'd taken a life.

Yet Thranduil stands, nodding to his guards. "Unlock his chains," he says to the dark-haired elves that wait upon him. They do as bidden and Thorin does not move, or attempt to break their grip. It would be futile, in any case. "I grow weary of this farce." Thranduil moves to take himself and his guards away with no further word when Thorin raises his head.

"No parting shot, _brother king_?" Thorin says, bile in his words. "Have you had your fill of gloating, knowing I have lost that which cannot be replaced?"

Ever does Thranduil keep his back turned when he throw his final barb at Thorin, to chew over during the night in the silence and isolation of the cavern. Yet this time Thranduil turns, wrapping his spindly fingers around the bars. He does not meet Thorin's eye and there is something in his bearing, shoulders not so straight, his chin no longer tilted upward and aloof. For a moment he looks almost… sorrowful. He speaks in low tones, "I did not know your companions numbered thirteen."

"As if the loss of a single life would matter to one who turned his back on thousands," Thorin grates, biting off each word. Yet Thranduil does not bristle at his words, does not throw some twisted insult back in Thorin's face. He only watces.

"I see my presence is an offense to you in your grief…"

"Your presence is always an offense to me."

There was not even a flicker on Thranduil's features. "I leave you to your rest then. Believe what you will of me, son of Thráin, but I take no pleasure in torment. We will attempt a new method of conversation on the morrow, and if the results are favorable then we may yet see you reunited with your companions."

"But not all of them," says Thorin. "Never again."

"As you say," Thranduil says, inclining his head in a gesture that would almost be respectful if Thorin did not know better. Thranduil signals his guards and Thorin does not watch him go as their soft footfalls disappear down the winding halls.

Thranduil's words leave of a puzzle in their wake, questions of why the elf would feign sympathy over the news of Bilbo's death when he had left the company to die of starvation in his forest. Thorin has no energy for such a line of thought. All knew of the falseness of elves, how lives mattered nothing to them. That they may steal and cheat, withholding promised payment and lying to gain alliances just so they may shatter them on a whim. Oathbreakers and kinslayers, treachery ran in their blood.

Thranduil's strange actions do not warrant the time it takes to examine them. All Thorin knows now is that his purpose is solidified. He will not allow Bilbo's death to be in vain, he will not expose Erebor to greedy elves who would march upon its empty halls to plunder them.

Yet even that resolve feel hollow in his breast. The chains no longer bind him to the wall, but Thorin finds he cannot move. It is as if his heart has been scraped free of the bloody cavern of his chest. He is cold now, as if he is turning to stone, and he finds that he welcomes the change. Stone is silent in its resignation, unflinching in the face of failure. Stone cannot feel pain, it knows no torment. It cannot spill secrets, it cannot betray faith given. Stone cannot be worn away by long years of isolation. It cannot be drugged, or beaten, or hurt. It cannot be left alone without hope. It cannot go mad. It cannot weep or rage. It cannot remember the smiles of its nephews, or the confidence that comes from a shield brother at its back, the assurance that comes from a wise counselor, the joy of companions come to support them. It cannot feel the loss of a small, brave creature that it had once held in its arms and begun to think that maybe, when this was over, that this one may hold him back.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would become stone, and nothing more would be stolen from him. Tomorrow he would be beyond betrayal, both given and taken. He would never love, or lose, or wish to scream. He would never again beat the walls with his fist, tasting blood in his mouth and rage in his heart, or feel such terrible grief that he could howl. Tomorrow.

Today, Thorin Oakenshield bows his head, alone in the darkness of his cell, and weeps.

* * *

**Author Note:** My apologies for the delay. I realized this story needed an additional chapter, and it took longer than I anticipated. If you have enjoyed it thus far, please consider leaving a review.


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